[She turns the book, holds up the page for him. It's not words. It's a series of sketches of him the largest maybe two inches across, not separated neatly by panel but sliding into each other, curling and spiraling around the page, odd spare patches of space filled with a close-up of his face, or his fingers, or his ankle. Some of the sketches are just a lump and the swish-drape of blankets and a scrawl of black hair. But they're all neatly rendered, moment-to-moment as he tossed around, a deeper message to some potentially amnesiac future self, something beyond what he looked like in the dark, that says: this is worth looking at, paying attention to. Even doing nothing, even obscured from view. Notice.]
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